‘Your majesty!’ cried Zadkiel, shouldering his way through the final lines of Rubric Marines and approaching the circle of Rehati. The captains looked back at him, their faces cold and full of disdain. It was a long time since Zadkiel had come so close to the royal presence. In the ever-shifting hierarchy of pacts and allegiances Zadkiel was considered a failure, a relic of less certain times, cast from the light of the cyclops. Unlike the Rehati, who wore armour and robes almost as spectacular as Magnus’, Zadkiel wore the plain, unadorned habit of a mendicant priest. His expression would be impossible to read because there was no face under his hood, just the long, bleached beak of a raptor, but the excitement in his voice was unmistakable. He came with news. News that would change everything. ‘It is I!’ he announced. ‘Zadkiel!’

Magnus was staring at the spaces between the spheres and did not seem to hear Zadkiel’s cries. He raised his blade to catch the lightning, scattering branches of electricity as he turned the metal. The weapon’s form was as ephemeral as its wielder but at the moment it resembled a long-handled glaive, filigreed and gilded with the same incredible designs as the cyclops’ armour. He used it like an oar, disturbing currents and creating ripples.

Zadkiel could have caught Magnus’ attention through sorcery, but such an act would be an offence of the highest order. If he was patient, Magnus would eventually acknowledge his calls but Zadkiel had to share what he had learned quickly.

He tapped his crook staff on the nearest of the Rehati and the sorcerer turned to look back at Zadkiel. He was dressed in beautiful robes and leaning on a serpent-headed staff.

Zadkiel pretended he was going to barge past him.

‘You have been gone too long,’ said the sorcerer, barring his way. ‘Everything has changed. The Red Monarch no longer has time for your quixotic tales.’

‘Magister Saros,’ replied Zadkiel, peering through the sorcerer’s golden mask and into his soul. However skilled Saros was, he had not yet shed the bonds of his humanity. He had not ascended. Not as Zadkiel had. His mind was as easy to read as the cuneiform on his battleplate. Paranoia seeped out of him like pus from an infected wound.

‘There is time enough for me,’ said Zadkiel, ‘but perhaps not for you. You should rush home to congratulate your acolyte.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Saros tried to sound dismissive but he could not entirely hide his concern. Zadkiel had been politicked out of the Rehati centuries ago, after falling from Magnus’ favour, but he had monitored them from afar, tracking their victories and defeats, learning everything he could about their weaknesses and their desires. The desires were all the same – power to rule in Magnus’ name and literal power, siphoned from the tides of the Great Ocean. But their weaknesses were endlessly unique.